


beauty and the boys

by hardscrabble



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: BROT3, Established Relationship, Halloween Costumes, M/M, Polyamory, basically just bros being dudes, plus ballgowns
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-16
Updated: 2019-11-16
Packaged: 2021-01-16 11:46:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,785
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21270524
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hardscrabble/pseuds/hardscrabble
Summary: “No, no, guys,” Tom says, struck with genius. “Beauty and the Beast. Oshbabe is Belle, right?”As Osh beams at him, like, totally delighted, Conno says, “So who’s the Beast? You don’t like mask costumes.”“We don’t need a Beast,” says Osh. “Willy’s Gaston, babe.”





	beauty and the boys

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AetherSeer](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AetherSeer/gifts).

> AetherSeer, thank you for the delightful prompt; I hope you enjoy these bros in costumes!

They’re drinking pumpkin cider, because it’s the first day of fall, and watching _ The Lion King_, because it’s awesome, when Osh says, “Dude. Dude, Halloween.”

Shit, that’s right. “Dude, Halloween!” says Tom. Last year they were the Three Musketeers, which was awesome because they all had swords, even though Conno kept muttering stuff about gun history and Le Grand Siècle politics until they got him to admit that even blunt-tip costume swords were cooler than prop muskets. It only took him two drinks and, like, ten minutes of making out, between Tom and Osh, to give in. Tom’s still pretty sure Conno held out, after Tom tried to distract him, just to get Osh to grab him by the cravat and drag him into a corner.

Not like anyone at the party would have cared if Osh had just, like, started biting Conno’s ear right in front of the snacks, but Conno is a private kind of guy. And Tom likes knowing that he and Osh are the only ones who _ know _ how Conno gets all shivery and gasp-y when you’re nibbling on his earlobe, mouthing at his neck, telling him how hot you get when he stops wanting to run his smart mouth because you’re making him feel that good. He gets grabby and his eyes flutter shut and it’s more than worth it, keeping _ that _ Conno a secret for the three of them. 

“—not _ Pocahontas_, obviously,” Conno is saying, and Tom remembers they’re having a conversation and stuff. “Or the newer ones. Except— _ Lilo and Stitch_?”

Osh thinks about that with his face screwed up, one eye squinted almost shut. “No one for Willy,” he concludes. “Unless he’s the bodyguard–secret agent guy. Was he an alien?”

He wasn’t an alien. Being him for Halloween would just mean wearing a suit. Double-breasted, with a shiny tie and sunglasses, if Tom is remembering the movie right, which isn’t _ bad, _ but— “Nah,” he says. Boring, even though the agent was a cool guy, in the end. While he was zoning out—only kind of, like, he just didn’t realize he was listening to them talking—Conno and Osh had discarded _ Cinderella _ and _ Sleeping Beauty_, because jokes about the fairy godmother would be too easy and doing Maleficent right would be too hard. Like, if Angelina Jolie is out there, why even try? “No, no, guys,” Tom says, struck with genius. “ _ Beauty and the Beast_. Oshbabe is Belle, right?”

As Osh beams at him, like, totally delighted, Conno says, “So who’s the Beast? You don’t like mask costumes.”

“We don’t _ need _ a Beast,” says Osh. “Willy’s Gaston, babe.”

Conno blinks at Tom, and then blinks again, hard. “I’m never going to be able to un-see that,” he mutters, dragging a hand down his face.

“Gaston’s evil, though,” says Tom. “What if I’m, like, Gaston’s good twin?”

“Gaston has a _ twin_?” Osh demands, sitting straight up. He looks indignant.

Very reasonably, Tom points out, “The movie doesn’t say he _ doesn’t _ have a twin.” Osh’s forehead smooths out as he nods thoughtfully, lips pursed.

“Tunic and tights,” says Conno, narrowing his eyes. “Fold-over boots. Okay. Yeah. And Osh is obviously Belle.”

“Wait, blue Belle—I mean her town outfit, the apron—or—” Osh stops himself and shakes his head, and Tom would ask what’s up, but his eyes are _ gleaming_, like they do when he’s getting really psyched for something. “Nope. Going all-out, boys,” he announces. “I’m gonna do the _ gown_.”

“Hell yeah,” says Tom, because if Osh sounds that sure of it, he’s excited for it. He goes for a fist-bump, but Osh grins and smacks a kiss on the back of his hand instead, which is better. “What about Conno?”

“I’m Cogsworth,” Conno replies. 

“Oh my god, babe, you _ are_,” says Osh, big eyes going even bigger. Because of course he is.

***

Getting Gaston’s stuff is pretty easy, even with training camp and the preseason. He has black athletic leggings, like, four times over, and before it’s even October he commissions an Etsy designer to make the top part. Like, sure, it’s not like the tunic is that _ different _from a big t-shirt with a collar, but Tom prides himself on knowing his talents, and altering clothes in ways that aren’t hacking the sleeves off stuff isn’t one. Besides, the season’s starting soon. The designer suggests an actual costume shop—they even give the names of two local ones—for the belt and boots, which he gets taken care of in an afternoon. 

“How’s Cogsworth coming?” he asks Conno that night over dinner. Osh is doing some media thing, a commercial spot or something; he’d said not to wait on him.

Conno wiggles one hand like _ so-so_. “Watching a couple things on Ebay,” he says. “I saw these gloves—you snap and they catch fire, like Lumiere—”

“Nice! Dude, you should…”

“Okay, imagine me setting someone on fire at Ovi’s,” says Conno, sitting back in his chair and folding his arms. 

Tom does; that’s easy. “Okay…” He’s not seeing the problem. Ovi would think it was hilarious. Because it would be.

Conno sort of flattens out his mouth and tips his head to one side. “Now imagine Nick letting me live afterward.”

Tom—doesn’t. He can’t. “…Point.”

***

Osh won’t talk about his costume progress. Not one word. Not even when he comes back from an errand early in October, a couple days before their first roadie, with a garment bag that’s, like, _ huge_. He just puts the bag in the guest room and makes Tom and Conno both pinkie-promise that they won’t snoop, or else Osh won’t do the costume _ and _ he’ll sleep by himself, _ in _ the guest room, until Christmas. He looks absolutely deadly serious when he says it.

Conno kind of eyes him at that, like he wants to call the bluff, and Osh rolls _ his _ eyes, which is a whole lot of exasperation at once, and says, “Obviously we’d still do whatever, babe. Just not at night. I’m making a _ point_, not, like, martyring myself.”

And the weird thing is, like, obviously all of them like sharing a bed, but of the three of them, Tom would say Osh loves it the _most_. After this long, no one’s shy about being soft when they’re feeling it, but when they’re all in bed to sleep, he gets all insistent about fairness, making sure everyone gets equal time in the middle. In the mornings he’s even more smiley and sweet; it makes him gentle and pleased and pleas_ing_ and clingier than Velcro. It’s enough that Conno sets their alarm like ninety minutes early for those mornings. The missed sleep is _worth it_, even aside from that alarm having saved Tom’s ass more times than he can remember anymore.

Yet, looking at the way Osh’s jaw is set, Tom doesn’t doubt for a second he’d do exactly like he says. Not that Tom wouldn’t be_ okay _ having only Conno to spoon with—that’s not really an “only.” Like, Conno on his own—Conno and Tom on their own—that’s great, too. But when he actually counts, it’s eight weeks between Halloween and Christmas, _ plus _ however much time before Halloween after either he or Conno gives in to curiosity, and Conno gives Tom a look that says he’s doing the same mental math and coming up with the same answer of _ livable, sure, but not what it could be_, so Tom scoffs and says, “Like I’d break a pinkie promise, Oshbabe, come on.”

Osh’s look of determination breaks as he smiles at Tom, all bright and lopsided with his eyes going crinkly at the corners. “No, you wouldn’t, Willy, baby,” he murmurs, and steps between him and Conno, putting one hand on the back of Tom’s neck and scratching up into his hair. It shoots a nice little shiver over his scalp and Tom closes his eyes to appreciate it. He knows he’s smiling like a goof, but it’s his boys seeing him, so, like, so what? “I just made you promise, too,” Osh continues, voice and fingers soft, “’cause Conno’s a sneaky bastard. You’ll keep an eye on him, though, right, babe?”

Conno snorts. “You want sneaky,” he says drily, and when Tom opens his eyes Conno is standing just behind Osh and running his thumb along the waistband of Osh’s jeans, his own eyes hooded. As he hits the cut of Osh’s hip, making his abs tighten beneath his t-shirt, Osh tips his head back to rest it on Conno’s shoulder. His fingers tighten in Tom’s hair, and it takes about half a second for Tom to decide that, no, he really doesn’t have anything better to do with his afternoon, before he steps forward, catching Osh’s body between his and Conno’s. 

His reach is long enough that he can settle one hand at the small of Osh’s back and the other on the jut of Conno’s shoulder blade. “Hear that?” he says to Conno, who cuts his eyes up at him. “Gonna keep you honest, bro.”

“Oh, you will.”

They don’t really talk about costumes any more for a while that day.

***

He doesn’t usually really think about their ages, because it’s mostly not relevant, but a week before Halloween he comes home from the boxing gym kind of late, stops to drop off some stuff in the kitchen, and finds his boys sacked out on a couch, playing Mario Kart and yelling. Well, Osh is yelling. Conno is making faces, which is nearly as good. “Either of you even make dinner?” Tom asks.

“—that fucking shell, you— What?” Osh turns away from the TV and blinks at Tom. “Oh, hey, Willy. Dinner? Huh?” 

Yoshi falls off the track. Conno finally pauses the game. “What time is it?”

“Like quarter after nine,” replies Tom.

“Oh, shit,” says Conno, as surprised as he ever sounds.

“Sorry, babe,” Osh says, and gestures ruefully with his controller. “Like, started playing, and…”

Tom shakes his head, feeling himself grinning. “Thought I was the kid around here.”

Conno sighs. “Pizza’s on me—” 

“No, I got takeout.” Tom jerks his head backward, indicating the kitchen. “That place with the good noodles. Saw your Insta story,” he adds to Osh.

Osh smacks his own forehead. “That’ll do it. You’re age-youngest, but you’re—”

“Paying attention,” Conno says, before Osh can find whatever expression he’s planning on totally butchering. “Like I _ usually _ am. Unless there’s…” He puts his controller down and stands. “You know how hard it is to figure out a Cogsworth that’ll let me _ sit_?”

“Okay,” says Osh quickly, clapping his hands together, “we’re not getting into that again ‘til we all got food.”

It is, Tom finds out, _ very _ hard to figure out a Cogsworth costume that will allow the wearer to walk around and sit down without the costume getting all fucked up. “Like, the shape’s a trapezoid,” Conno says with a fork in one hand and a pen in the other, sketching a crappy but effective little stick-figure dude wearing a clock. On a napkin, which gets him extra points. “So there’s rigid materials, but I can’t move, or that foam stuff, but it bends when I do, which looks weird, and it gets creased and stuff pretty easy, so it’d look bad.”

Tom glances up at him from the napkin sketch. “Those your only options?”

“I have ideas,” says Conno. “And I’m gonna pull an Osh and not talk about them.”

“Good man,” Osh says with his mouth full.

Tom sighs heavily. “You both know everything about _ my _ costume.”

“Because you’re basically Gaston already, bud.”

“See if I save you from starving over Mario Kart ever again.”

Osh laughs. “Five bucks says you’d do it tomorrow.”

He’s about to protest, even though Osh is totally, totally right, when Conno says, “But you won’t have to, obviously. Because we’re adults and we share responsibilities. Like food.”

Tom gets bonus time in the middle that night. Conno sprinkles his back and shoulders with little butterfly kisses, and Osh lies against him and plays with his hair, combs his fingers through it and runs his hand along Tom’s face and kisses his collarbone, and one of these nights Tom is just going to, like, fizz up and evaporate with happiness.

***

Halloween actually falls on a Saturday, but that’s their last day before a home game, so the party is the day before. “Into the morning of,” Osh says, doing something sleazy with his eyebrows, and then Conno tosses a throw pillow that hits him right in the face, and Osh’s retaliatory flung blanket drops over Tom like a trap, and that’s, like, an hour right there lost to wrestling. Osh checks the time once they’re done trying to beat the shit out of each other, swears, and flees to the guest room. Tom shares a look and a shrug with Conno.

They fuck around for awhile playing COD, which Conno is unfairly good at, but whatever. Eventually Conno checks the time and says—sighs, really—“All right, clock-wrangling,” which sounds enough like something else that Tom barks a laugh.

“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

Conno sighs again, even heavier, but he leans over and kisses Tom’s shoulder anyway. “You heard me. _ Correctly_. Leaving at nine, bud.”

“Yeah, bro, obviously.” Which means he gets to do, like, _ nothing _ until, oh, quarter after eight.

He congratulates past-Tom for picking something so simple and takes a nap.

Tom is kind of alarmed, once the tunic is on with the leggings and the belt and the boots, how little he has to, like, _ do_. His hair does the widow’s-peak thing, and he shaved yesterday so he’s got the jawline—although his chin is a little less… chin-y than the Disney character’s. 

He’s just as comfortable as he would be in normal clothes, even with the double layer of leggings. It made more sense, right, to wear the compression tights, then mask those with plain flat-knit cotton ones. But—huh. The tunic has got a lot more going on in terms of, like, seams and stuff than a t-shirt, and it flares a little below the belt to the tops of his thighs in a way that exaggerates the difference from Tom’s shoulders to his waist to his hips. Makes an actual silhouette, or whatever. The breadth of his chest is… obvious, too, especially with the contrast collar open to the middle of his sternum. He kind of eyes his reflection, and then, because the Etsy designer asked, he sort of poses, takes a picture, and shoots it to their email.

_ Omg that’s unnerving_, they respond immediately, followed even faster by:

_ WAIT _

_ Like in a good way!!! _

_ You look great!!! _

_ Omg could I use this for promo??? _

Tom snorts at that and tells them they can totally use it for whatever, because—he checks his reflection again. They _ did _ do a really awesome job. He poses again, does the double-flex and a cheesy grin, and jumps like a full foot at the wolf whistle from the doorway.

“Lookin’ good, bud,” says Conno, smirking, and Tom would wipe _ that _ off his face, but the exaggerated head-to-toe Conno gives him has more than its usual share of appreciation, which is _ nice_. Besides, Conno is already in makeup.

Like, not a lot. A clock face, drawn on his face, which is funny. The time, according to Conno’s face, is just about twenty ’til four. “Look at _ you_, man!”

He should look goofy; he doesn’t, by some kind of Conno magic. The main _ costume _ part, the trapezoidal clock body that he was complaining about, is a sort of cape-coat thing, this brown fabric with a scroll-y print, padded enough that it holds the right shape. It’s, like, a little less than knee-length, with these freaking _ epaulettes _ on the shoulders, and open in the front over a black velvet tunic with a gold pendulum… thing. “I couldn’t find one that could move without looking shitty or dropping way more cash,” Conno says critically, eyeing his own front—past the cravat he repurposed from last year’s Musketeers. The breeches and stockings and shoes are normal, or, like, historically normal, but the dude looks as much like a freaking clock come to life as someone can without a theater department behind them.

“Dude, that’s _ killer_,” says Tom, and means it. “_Way _ better than fire gloves.”

Conno raises one eyebrow. “You sure about that?”

“Nick won’t kill you. _ You’re _way better, like, not dead.”

His eyes go kind of soft at that, because Tom apparently can’t speak words without telling his bro how much he loves him. “Don’t complain about your Christmas present,” Conno mutters, and takes his phone out of a pocket.

“The hell, that has _ pockets? _”

Conno checks the time and drops the phone back where it came from. “If it’s worth it, it’s got pockets.”

“Too right, babe,” drawls a very familiar voice, and Tom is distracted from having to defend his tunic as _ worth it _ despite _ not _ having pockets, what the fuck, because he’s busy beating Conno to the door so he can get into the hallway first.

Osh is standing outside the guest room in the _ gown_.

The yellow-gold satin, off-the-shoulder, wasp-waist, bell-skirt flounced fucking _ gown_, and he looks fucking _ beautiful_. Like, it’s not drag, because that’s a whole performance sub-genre involving a lot more makeup, but he’s not doing some guy-in-a-dress thing played for laughs, either; it’s just Osh, in a gown. (_Just_!) Like, his shoulders above the gathered chiffon-y wrap around his upper arms, and his _ face_, and his hair pushed off his forehead doing the cartoon princess ripple-y thing, because he’s ridiculous—

Like, Tom is _ aware _ that Osh is uncommonly attractive, but sometimes it just kind of punches you in the face, right?

“Mascara?” Conno asks, and Osh nods. He hasn’t quit smiling; his lips are glossy deep pink. “That color better not transfer,” says Conno, “because—”

Osh cocks a hip and folds his arms across his chest, pretending to glare. “Brett. Babe. You know me better than that. You helped me wear-test this one for…” He thinks, comes up empty, and flaps one hand. “That thing, the one time.”

“Good,” says Conno, and okay, Tom made it to the hall first, but Conno definitely makes it to Osh first, because Tom is kind of stuck to the floor. Which means he gets to watch his boy who’s a talking clock kiss the daylights out of his boy who’s a Disney princess—or, like, the daylights to the extent possible, when Conno’s being as careful as he is not to mess up Osh’s hair. And with the entire clock costume in the way.

“Oshbabe,” Tom manages to say, finally.

Conno steps back so Osh can turn. He gives Tom the same kind of once-over as Conno, but slower, and as another, eviler smile takes over his face, he says, “Willy, baby, Gaston might’ve had a chance if he’d looked _ that _ good.”

“Oh, cool,” Tom says, kind of weakly, and thinks _ thank you _at past-Tom, who decided on the doubled leggings.

“But we’re gonna see about that later,” says Osh, checking his phone, “because our Lyft is here _ now_.” And slides the phone into _ a pocket_, which the gown _ has_.

“Tom, here,” Conno says, and holds out his hand, because Tom is still holding his own phone, wondering how he missed the memo. “I got it.”

“Love you, man,” he replies, because, like, he’s still a little stunned by Osh in a fucking ballgown and grateful Conno has an easy solution to the phone problem, and then, _ because _ there’s Osh in a fucking ballgown, amends it to, “Love you both. Like, you have no fucking idea.”

Osh is pulling on a bomber jacket, but the second it’s on he’s kissing Tom on the cheek, then the nose. “Love you, too. Come on, baby, you’re not getting gooey before we’re even out the door.”

_ Gooey_. Well, when he’s right, he’s right.

***

For all the shit about time, the party is just getting going when they make their way in—Osh is holding up his skirts, elbows tucked to his sides, showing smooth calves and white heels. Not, like, a lot of heel, maybe an inch, but—Tom realizes his mouth is going dry at the same time he realizes a shirtless Ovi is descending on him with, like, plaid everywhere and his face painted blue, which makes Tom start paying attention to stuff that isn’t Osh _ real _fucking quick.

“Watched _ Braveheart_,” says Nicky, because Ovi is just kind of roaring. Nicky’s wearing a purple-striped white tunic and a gold circlet in his hair. “You know where everything is, right? Come on.”

“Wait—” Conno eyes Nicky, having extricated himself from Ovi with an apparently satisfactory slap on the back. “_Really? _”

Nicky doesn’t roll his eyes; he’s too composed for that. “Of course,” he says, barely smiling, and then there are more people behind them and Tom has to whack Conno on the arm for him to explain.

“Alexander,” says Conno, “the Great.”

“That’s—” 

“_Such _ a Nick move,” Osh says, admiringly, and—well, yeah.

The house is filling up—people from the team, their friends, Ovi’s friends, their friends. Holts and Brandi both have drinks already, and Tom manages to ask, “Holts, where’s your costume, man?” with a straight face.

Brandi nearly chokes on her mouthful of soda as Holts gives him an exaggerated look of betrayal, considering that he’s wearing studded leather chaps with his skinny jeans and flannel. And a vest with a sheriff’s star. Meanwhile, Brandi is in one of those one-piece fleece things, this one with a cow print and little horns on the hood.

“Trust you to sex up Holts and do Halloween in pajamas,” says Osh, once they’ve established that Brandi’s soda isn’t going down any of the wrong pipes.

“Trust _ you _ to out-dress every girl _ here_,” Brandi shoots back, grinning, and the way Osh beams—like, Tom doesn’t think you can just, like, fall over and die from people being beautiful, but who knows?

Nastya as Catwoman is holding court on the couches with Varvara as the _ Black Swan _ girl and Gina Carlson in a pirate getup. Orly, a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle (Leonardo—Tom approves), is only a few feet away, talking to Jasky, who’s a dinosaur, and Carly, another pirate. “_TJ _,” calls Nastya. “Come here! Show off! Bring your boys.”

Carly turns and double-takes—not at Osh, but at Tom. “How’d I never see that before?” he asks himself, as they head over. Osh is still holding up one side of his skirt a bit to keep it out of the way, which is totally not distracting, and he drops an actual curtsey to the crowd.

While they’re talking, Tom looks around. He thinks he can hear Vee in another room. “Gonna see who’s around,” he says to Conno, and takes off.

Vee is back in the lounge, which is doubling as a video game room, or something, and he’s earnestly explaining how the group picked his Ash Ketchum costume, Djooser’s Pikachu, and Bows’ Charmander to Burky. Burky himself is—okay, wearing a strapless black swimsuit thing and heels with bunny ears, which is— “_Tommy! _” Burky half-sings, interrupting Vee, and flings himself off the arm of the couch for a hug. “You’re that guy! Five dozen eggs!”

“Yeah, you should see Osh and Conno. You look good.”

“Backy suggested,” says Burky cheerfully. “As joke, but who’s laughing now?”

He _ can _ manage the five-inch heels, it turns out, which is only weird because it makes Burky taller than Tom.

***

It’s a great party, not like Tom expected otherwise. Ovi doesn’t _ do _ bad parties. Although Ovi doesn’t have much to do with Osh pinning Tom to a wall and kissing him hard enough to bruise, like, an hour after they get there. Tom finds his hands on the satiny fabric at Osh’s waist and holds him there when he pulls back. “Babe, what—”

Osh is doing that _ thing_, looking up through his eyelashes with a smile curling one side of his mouth, which—okay, it goes straight to Tom’s dick, and he’s _ not _ complaining. “Couldn’t resist,” says Osh, shrugging one shoulder; the chiffon ruffle rises and falls with it. “And we haven’t made out since, like, breakfast. And you didn’t snoop. That enough reasons?”

“You don’t ever need a reason, bro, like—”

“Good,” Osh says, and kisses him again, and they only break apart when Kuzy—wearing street clothes and devil horns on a headband, which is lazy, but who’s gonna tell Kuzy what to do?—wolf-whistles and starts corralling people for shots.

***

They’re all buzzed and giddy on the ride home, Osh in the front seat as a concession to the skirts and Conno and Tom in the backseat. The driver has cat ears clipped into her hair and is in _ love _ with Osh’s costume, as she tells him almost immediately. “You look _ so good _ and that’s, like, so _ much dress_,” she gushes. “So many princess costumes are like, oh, sure, here’s, like, a ruffle, but yours _ commits _ to it, like—that’s a _ gown_, damn.”

“Got a crinoline and everything,” says Osh.

“And it moves so well! Sorry, not, like, creeping, but while you were getting in—”

“No, no problem! Took a bit to figure out; glad it paid off…”

They keep talking, but Tom kind of stops noticing, because Conno sighs and rearranges himself in the backseat, settling his head on Tom’s shoulder and his hand on the inside of Tom’s thigh. Like, kind of hidden by the Cogsworth coat, but—“Hey, bud,” Tom mutters.

“Hey,” Conno replies in a murmur; it buzzes a little. “You’re comfy. I’ve said that, right?”

“A few times.” Tom presses his luck and rests his cheek against the top of Conno’s head. “Tired?”

“Nah.” For an instant, Conno digs his fingers into Tom’s leg, and he snorts out a soft laugh when Tom jumps. “Just relaxing.”

“Oh, _ sure_. Which means—” Conno smooths his hand along Tom’s thigh, down and back up, and higher, and Tom kind of forgets he’s saying anything until he _ feels _ how Conno is smirking against his shoulder. “Dude, _ not _ fair,” he whispers sharply. Or, like, sort of sharply. He means it sharply, more or less.

Osh glances over his shoulder and glows at them as he keeps talking with their Lyft driver about ballgown logistics. Conno pats his leg and says, “You’ll live.”

Tom tries to feel aggrieved. It doesn’t work very well.

Once they’re back, Conno hands over Tom’s phone and the front door keys, then crowds up against Tom while he’s unlocking the door. Osh is finishing up his conversation with the driver—they swapped numbers or Snapchats or something, Tom is like ninety per cent sure—so there’s no one but Tom to notice that Conno’s hands are on Tom’s hips. Or, one of them is; the other’s on his ass. “Butterfingers,” Conno says in an undertone when Tom fumbles the keys.

“Yeah, whatever—” He gets the door open, steps in just past the point where you can see the street, and turns under Conno’s hands to kiss him. The clock hands are still on his face. Tom tugs at the coat covering, like, every inch of Conno from the knees up and noses along Conno’s jaw, up to his ear; when he bites down, Conno sucks in a breath and backs Tom into the wall.

The front door closes; Tom glances up and sees Osh, his mouth tipping into a smile a few shades eviler than it was when he was laughing with the Lyft driver. He quirks his eyebrows and jerks his head in the direction of the bedroom they share—

“_Layers_,” Conno mutters. “_Why _did this seem like a good idea.” Tom looks back at him; he’s out of the Cogsworth coat, now in a pile on the floor, but that leaves everything else.

Osh flips on the lights and laughs. “Babe, you’re smudging,” he says to Conno. “Your minute hand’s all over Willy.” He reaches for Tom, touching a spot on his cheek. “Can’t leave you two alone, can I?”

“Would you want to?” Tom asks, and turns his head to kiss Osh’s palm. Osh blinks up at him, his smile going soft.

“Nah,” he answers, quiet. He glances over at Conno, still in half his costume. “Not for anything.”

“We still good without a Beast?”

Osh rolls his eyes. “Who needs a Beast? I got my boys.”

Tom has to kiss him for real at that. Like, _ happily ever after _ might be taking it a bit far, but _ happily right now _ is pretty damn good, in his experience.

**Author's Note:**

> much thanks to beta-readers [ck](http://thetrashpitals.tumblr.com) and [m](http://dare-we-stan.tumblr.com), to the ALL CAPS Exchange crew for their work and patience, and to you for reading <3


End file.
